


Simple and Fortunate

by Anonymous



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Abuse, Honeypotting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 20:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14838456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Elim Garak is a recent initiate of the Order, sent out on a routine data-gathering mission.  But when he hears one of the data-mines is also an abuser, he volunteers himself for the more difficult route.  He hates abusers; he likes being abused.





	Simple and Fortunate

There were two Legates that Garak could have gone to, in order to secure the information he was required to bring back to Tain, regarding some questionable allies of the newest Archon-elect.  Both men were touted as ‘friendly’ although in vastly different ways, and they were always looking to make solid connections at networking events.

It was fortunate Garak was able to attend a party with both of them in Cardassia City.  Fortunate, but not so simple.

Foremost, he had not gone as ‘Garak,’ but as Magistrate Prak, a man of Garak’s own creation.  He was a timid clerk of the court, buried in stacks of data-rods inside his apartment, only emerging to give summations in the lower courthouses, where there was no glamour.  He was attending this gala, so he told everyone he passed, as a favor to his supervisor, who was taken ill.

The lies were so _simple_ , in the beginning, and they built so naturally.  Garak was looking forward to returning from his first major mission with his hands full of everything Tain asked for and more.

Then it became more difficult.

He kept one hand to his chest, hovering and tapping nervously with his fingernails, inviting his viewers to take pity on him.  Legate Eida was the first to approach him, smiling politely and asking if he had been shown to the bar.

How trite, Garak thought.

“Yes, thank you,” Garak said.  “Did you want me to get you something?”

Eida declined and thanked Garak for his thoughtfulness; he was _glad_ to have men of such humbleness still serving in the courts.

Legate Tolmel approached the table sometime later, grimacing and looking deeply agitated.  Garak thought, perhaps, of turning the two against each other, so he could sit back and bask in the secrets they spilled, trying to outdo one another’s accomplishments and anguishes.  That may have been fun to watch, and he did attempt to initiate it by mentioning how he studied their illustrious careers prior to taking his law examination.

But no, he had to intervene.  He could not lose the security net the losing party would have offered.  So he coughed and asked a less threatening question.

“How long have you lived in Cardassia’or?” he asked, “I’ve only just finished unpacking, and I was struggling to find a peaceful place to read during meals…?”

He ended all of his sentences with a sweet inversion of his voice, and while Eida gave a satisfactory answer, Tolmel leaned in close to his cheek, with a lecherous glint in his eye.  Garak considered all of this carefully, while they called him ‘Prak’ affectionately and offered to find places for him on their respective advising councils.

Tolmel turned his eyes to a young woman across the room, and Garak asked how long they had known each other.  He worried, a moment too late, that this was bold and would put Tolmel off.

It was fortunate, then, that Tolmel shrugged and let out a boisterous laugh.

Fortunate, but not simple.

“Oh, all her life,” Tolmel said, touching Garak’s arm on the table top.   _That_ was bold.  “She’s the daughter of my house attendant.  And better than her mother, I hope, when the time comes to have her replaced.”

“Of course,” said Garak, while Eida nodded sympathetically.

“You could always let her go,” Eida said.

Tolmel said he was doing his attendant a favor, saving her from some societal disgrace or other, and then the conversation turned to the back of his hands.  One was clearly visible, settling atop Garak’s, and the other was apparently legendary for the correction it administered. All in vain, too, Tolmel said, while Eida nodded uncomfortably.

This particular subject was a sentimental crack in Garak’s armor, and while he wanted to denounce Tolmel loudly and unapologetically, he swallowed down the bitter words.  He could have gone to another table with Eida and learned whatever he needed in the course of the single evening. But the difficult option appealed to him, and he volunteered himself to the challenge.

He clenched his fingers together, beneath Tolmel’s, and allowed him to stroke and soothe discomfort that did not exist.  Garak did not feel anything for him, now. There had been anger, but he wisely stifled it, and now he was vacant. He was, in many ways, a void for Tolmel to fill.

Oh, he had heard plenty about the archon-elect over dessert.  Enough to start preliminary work on her case, enough to pass off to a probe for further digging, enough to earn him a pat on the shoulder from Tain.  

But not enough to ensure Tolmel’s house attendant could have a safe and peaceful weekend to herself.

An entire weekend, Garak told himself, as he leaned his ear close to Tolmel’s lips at the table, shivering at things that were not secrets at all.  He knew what kind of man he was dealing with, what kind of disgraceful excuse for decency he was about to expose. A weekend, maybe longer.

Tolmel was not stupid.  He did not offer use of his own house, anyway.  All he did was ask how Garak was enjoying his dessert, whether the chef they had hired was acceptable.  Garak chewed for awhile on his pudding and the irony of Tolmel abusing a hired professional over something his _new friend_ deemed subpar.  Disgusting.

“Oh, very good, thank you,” Garak said.

Tolmel patted his hand and said that was _good_ ; he wanted this new initiate - his _guest_ \- to feel welcome.  

“It’s important to us old men you enjoy yourself,” Tolmel said, including Eida against his will with a gesture, “you’ll be in our place one day, and you’d best know your way around.”

“I’d best,” Garak replied.  

Tolmel led him away from the table after that, away from what he called ‘old Eida’s devious look’ which Garak considered comparatively tame.  

It was much darker in the corridor Tolmel selected, and Garak could see more clearly there.  He could see how thin and silvery Tolmel’s hair was, how his eyes seemed to hang in their sockets on thick ribbons of red, how his lips tapered off directly into his sagging orbital ridges.  Garak had no doubts about him being thoroughly evil, then. It wore on people, if one did not know how to hide it as well as Garak did.

Even though he had been planning to drop the line for several minutes, now, Garak looked flustered as he nervously wrenched at his own shirt-collar.

“Yes… yes I’d be happy to show you around my apartment,” he said quietly.  

“I don’t want to see your apartment, you bashful little _fool_ ,” Tolmel replied, like it was a compliment, “I want to see your _body_.”

***

Outside, Tolmel arranged a skimmer car for them, signalling a driver who seemed to recognize him, and who knew the address to input even before Tolmel opened his ugly mouth.  Garak stared at the ground. He would need to make himself almost indispensable; it seemed Tolmel ran this routine often.

Right away, he dimmed the compartment light, and sealed the opaque divider between the two rows of seats.  Garak was wearing a modest, high-collared shirt - elegant and perfectly suited to his role - and Tolmel scraped at the fastener impatiently, fraying one of the lines of embroidery in his claw.  

“Is something the matter?” Garak asked, seeking out Tolmel’s gaze.

His eyes widened and focused, and he tugged again at the collar.  Garak let his fastidious sense subside, and opened the uppermost fastener with ease.  Tolmel’s palm touched Garak’s chula, squeezing and rubbing fervently, in time with half-mad whispers and grunts against his ear.

“Did I do something wrong?” Garak added, after Tolmel had apparently descended into urges stronger than speech.

Tolmel shook his head and went on until Garak’s chula was hot, and flushed blue beneath the fabric.  Garak knew precisely what he was doing. It was drawn from a fable about speeding and deepening the emotional bonding process, although generally its use was restricted to hatchlings.  In this context, Garak knew it was so Tolmel could sleep comfortably, having blurred the line of consent in his own favor.

Garak had to make himself stand out in a way that complemented this, even though it made him nauseous.  

“I’ve never… Legate,” he said, to recall Tolmel’s ego-driven attention span, “Legate, I’m afraid I’ve never been with another man, before.”

Tolmel’s tongue flicked out of his mouth like a viper’s, and he ran the bifid split of it slowly along his lower lip.

***

Garak was twenty-four years old, and had been with three other men, before.

The hotel room was dark and sparsely decorated; a luxury property where Legates went to relax and clear their minds.  The bed was firm and the sheets were smooth, but Garak only felt this in passing, while he waited for Tolmel to return from undressing in the bathroom.  His scales were pallid, almost translucent when he passed under the single bar of light, suspended from the ceiling. It would have been so simple, then and there, to charge him and strangle him.  Garak could have done it without any trouble at all. And then Tolmel turned his back.

Who is the fool _now_? Garak thought.

But the answer was still himself, as he sat on the edge of the bed with his legs primly crossed, admiring the embossed geometric pattern on the sheets.  When Tolmel addressed him by his alias, he looked over and said ‘hmm?’

He was gesturing to the lounge chair, low and sloping from a wide backrest down to a narrow, pointed footrest.  Garak remained where he was, gesturing to himself, pouting, tilting his head, doing everything to plead for help.  Predictability was one of Tolmel’s strongest suits; Garak could tell he enjoyed guiding subordinates. Not gently, either.

“I’ll be gentle,” Tolmel said, just as the thought crossed Garak’s mind.

With a timid nod, he approached.  Tolmel massaged him harshly through his clothes, sliding his coat off his shoulders, then reaching for his trousers and standard undergarment.  

“I trust you,” Garak said, to feed him.

Naturally, Tolmel took a more substantial bite than Garak offered.  He took hold of Garak’s shoulders and shoved him to his knees, bending him over the wide seat of the chaise.  Then, Garak heard him popping one finger into his mouth, slicking it minimally, muttering ‘relax’ much too forcefully, and then shoving it into the lowest point of Garak’s purse.  He parted the seam and thrust in harshly, and Garak whimpered. He hated how much he enjoyed being used this way, now that the man’s vile demeanor was thoroughly out of his mind. He could not think about it while he was _working_.

“Are you lying to me?  Loose little thing...” Tolmel said in a wicked voice.  Garak supposed it was a fair attempt at proving he was not easily manipulated; it meant Garak was doing his job, and well.

“ _Ow_ , no!” Garak yelped.

Tolmel uncurled his finger, spreading the rest of Garak’s seam and digging further inside.  Garak heard him breathing hard, and turned his head in time to see him everting.

“I couldn’t possibly…” Garak whined.

“Nice and slow,” Tolmel assured, proceeding to shove himself inside.

To his credit, Garak thought, he did thrust slowly.  He held Garak’s waist at the precise angle he wanted it, but he only seemed to hear when Garak said something felt _exciting_.

Garak everted partway through, and enjoyed the way Tolmel held him and praised the shape of his scaling.  Never before had a lover called him ‘delicate.’

Tolmel groaned low in his throat as he finished, and Garak shut his eyes before rolling them, in an effort to entertain himself.  If only he had been rougher - that was a self-destructive behavior Garak _liked_ , on the odd chance he could secure it.  

“May I comm you, Sir?” Garak said gently.  

“Prak…"

In his ecstasy, Tolmel cursed, and then said he would have his aide open a private channel.  

Garak fastened his trousers while Tolmel dozed on the lounge chair, and he shoved the entire experience out of his mind.  

***

At the risk of inciting Tain’s wrath - or worse, his disappointment - Garak asked for another two weeks on the assignment.  He sent home what he had, admitted to making a mistake in his selection, and expressed his desire to dig more deeply to correct it.

He spent those two weeks going back and forth between the finest hotels in the sector.

Over dinner, he would ask innocuous questions about the archon-elect, and then a few about the house attendant, and then he would enthusiastically compliment Tolmel’s choice of suit for the evening.  

Then he would be bent over desks or pressed against windows in broad daylight or held down on his hands and knees, and he would whimper Tolmel’s name; they never faced each other.  They began to curl up together afterward, and Garak knew exactly how to praise him, his _strength_ and his _commitment_ , while wavering, himself, and admitting he never thought of being taken that way.   

Tolmel almost always called him ‘foolish’ before jabbing into his seam a final time, in illustration.  Garak would yelp in surprise, then he would laugh and lean into Tolmel’s bony shoulder.

On the weekend, Garak tidied up _Prak’s_ apartment, in an effort to lure Tolmel out of his comfort zone.  All he needed to do was mention an interesting new case he was working on, and Tolmel was beaming to his doorstep.  It was almost too simple to be fun. But Garak kept at it for the attendant; he knew just what he was going to do for her.

Without asking, Tolmel slapped his face - Garak did not care for that at all - and then took him with surprising restraint over the edge of Prak’s bed.  Then they sat and spoke as had become customary, and Garak asked about Tolmel’s experience with familial testaments, in the absence of shri-tal. The topic was hotly debated, and Tolmel was, unsurprisingly, on the severe and unimaginative side.

“One would be devastatingly stupid not to initiate the rites,” he said, and that was the end of it.

Knowing Tolmel did not have a will in place, Garak took the liberty of writing one in his name.  

***

Obtaining the serum was simple.

Garak ordered a vial of it from the hospital on official Order business, and it arrived inside his apartment replicator within minutes.  Within the trade, it was known as Martyr’s Poison. It was clear and odorless, its taste was easily disguised inside alcohol, and it was compromising even in single-drop doses.  For years it had been used in State-assisted suicides, and by spies and agents of Garak’s own association, both above and below his position.

He slipped some into an expensive bottle of kanar, and forwarded it from his transporter to Tolmel’s personal address, which he had deduced from their private communication channel.  Before he sent it, he attached a card, empty of words but slathered in sticky sweat from his scent-gland. Tolmel would _ache_ for him.

In his own unhurried way, he arrived at Tolmel’s house.  The attendant admitted him and he gave her a calm smile, a slow nod, and a respectful handshake.  He uttered his alias to her and she showed him to the stairs.

“I’m afraid the Legate isn’t feeling his best.”

“May I see him?  I’m a friend.”

“I have heard him mention you…”

She pondered for a moment, but ultimately sent Garak up.  He was wringing his hands and tugging nervously at his cuffs, and he gripped the bannister tightly as he climbed.  

Tolmel was in his private bedroom, larger than _Prak’s_ entire apartment, with two separate lounges and desks in addition to a soaking-tub and the bed.  He was stooped low over one of the workstations, examining the screen installed within the tabletop.

“How did you get this address, Prak?” he asked, looming, turning slowly in his chair.

It was difficult to tell if he was in trouble; Tolmel’s voice was thin and breathy, and Garak noticed a snifter of kanar off to one side, rim stained with the shape of Tolmel’s lips.  

“Your attendant,” Garak replied, knowing she would be spared any retribution.

Tolmel waved his hand dismissively, and said he had never known such a _thoughtful_ young man in all his life.  Garak found it sickening, but fitting, too.  In fact, he took this disguise of motivation Tolmel made for him and slipped more comfortably into it.

“I heard you are not feeling well today, Sir.  Is there anything I can do?”

When he leaned over the desk and took hold of Tolmel’s shoulders, massaging them with some trepidation, he saw the bottle and the glass of kanar.  Both were too full for Tolmel to be dramatically affected; this would take time. But it would not be painful. Garak wished it could have been _excruciating_ , but subtlety was the cornerstone of his industry.  

It was best to keep one’s emotions faint and distant, not unlike the flickering candles Garak saw on the ledge of Tolmel’s soaking-tub.  The words of praise Tolmel said were _nice_ , when Garak imagined them in other circumstances.  And so, he proceeded to bathe a dying man, to sit in his lap and hold aside his hair so Tolmel could mark the dorsal scale at the nape of his neck.  Mumbling, Tolmel mentioned feeling tired, and Garak helped him to bed with a nervous smile on his face.

Then he brought over the kanar glass, holding it appreciatively to his nose, sensory scales flaring as if he was preparing to take a sip.  This was the quickest and surest way he could think to demonstrate it was not harmful, and to key into Tolmel’s possessive nature. The man was so dull and predictable, Garak thought, as Tolmel strained forward and snatched the glass from his hand.

“Silly little thing,” he said brokenly, and Garak nodded in humble affirmation.

Tolmel took another sip as Garak leaned in to trace his pectoral ridges, then his taut underbelly.  He took the cup away and set it on the nightstand, climbing into bed beside Tolmel, patting curiously at his thigh.

“I want to look at you, Sir,” he said, as if he was terribly nervous.  “I want to look at you while we make love.”

As if Tolmel had ever _made love_ in his life, Garak thought, feeling sick with ironic satisfaction.

Tolmel tipped his chin up into a nod but did not say anything; Garak did not care one way or the other, at this point.

“Give me your little purse--” Tolmel mumbled, grasping at Garak’s legs even as he spread them to do so.  Disgusting, Garak thought, the way he _refused_ to be anything but in control.

If only he knew how Garak had controlled the situation all along.  Would it make him feel equally disgusted, to know Garak _liked_ the rough treatment, when he detached the sensations from emotion and intimacy?  When it was just another assignment to him, and more than that for Tolmel? Would it bother him, Garak wondered, to see the scenarios flip and fizzle into contradictions?

Garak thought about how he would watch him die in the coming moments, how the life would seep from his body and the sickening red light would burn out of his eyes.  He thought about the will he had written for his house attendant, how Garak knew without hearing more than a dozen words from her that she was undeserving of Tolmel’s ill-treatment.  He thought of the fortified estate in the low rainforest, where many distinguished Legates retired to, where she would go with her family for eternal protection. He would hand the document to her on his way out of the house.  Tolmel would be found in a case of apparent suicide, indulgent and carnal and eccentric, something to be mocked in the press for months. And he would send every tawdry detail about the archon-elect to Tain directly, while mentioning ‘something had happened’ to Legate Tolmel.

As Garak rolled his hips forward, he looked intentionally into Tolmel’s eyes; he was having trouble focusing.

“Does it hurt?” Garak asked, in _Prak’s_ trademark timid voice.

Tolmel cursed softly and coughed.

Garak changed his tone to a cold one and drove forward sharply, filling himself just the way he liked, not caring at all how Tolmel felt.  

“ _I wish it would_ ,” he said, for both of them.


End file.
